Drift, A Ride Outtake
by kris salvador
Summary: A 4-part Ride outtake, set between chapters 17 and 18. Warning: contains the usual.
1. Chapter 1

**_BETA'ED_**

****_Drifting: a driving technique where the driver intentionally over steers, causing loss of traction in the rear wheels through turns, while maintaining vehicle control and a high exit speed._

**A five-part pointless crap that's set BETWEEN CHAPTERS 17 AND 18 (not 18 and 19, as I previously said.) Ooops and sorry. :) **

**Warning: Not all smut. Really.**

**Thanks to Monika (Lulu M), zombie killer, who goes by Lulu_M5 at twitter, for kindly volunteering to beta. **

I.

On the plane going home, I sat next to a woman wearing a burka. Black cloth covered her entire face, pulled back into a tidy butterfly knot. She wore a flowing robe, also black, and carried a small suitcase. I smiled at her, and even though I couldn't see her lips, I knew she smiled back. The corner of her eyes crinkled, and the burka fluttered. She had pretty eyes, and looked like a fairly pretty woman, but with the burka on, I couldn't know for sure. A part of me balked at the idea of covering women as a social necessity, but the chauvinist pig crowed about how fortunate it was for her husband to be the only man who saw her face.

I wondered what she was doing on my flight to Atlanta. Japan wasn't big on the burka, and the US, even less. I couldn't imagine anyone being comfortable wearing the thing. But what if the woman actually liked the burka? What if she wanted only her husband to ever see her face as a token of her loyalty and devotion? And yes, I know that society and religion probably conditioned her into liking her burka. I'm not a complete idiot. But weren't all relationships, secular or nonsecular, dictated by social conventions to some degree?

She didn't have the perpetually harassed face worn by a lot of her modern, less constricted sisters. Her lips may be hidden, but she didn't seem to have qualms at smiling back at me or tipping her head in gratitude when I helped her stow her bag away in the overhead bin. If her clothes or her fairly expensive-smelling perfume were any indication, I'd say her man was taking care of her properly. And if she was jetsetting from Tokyo to the US with no visible chaperones/jailer/dom/kidnapper, I'd say she was better off compared to other women whose husband/father/brother didn't follow their country's patriarchal, and some say medieval, practices.

Thinking about the woman's state of possible unhappiness ultimately led me to think about the reason I'm jetsetting across the pacific a day ahead of schedule. By all rights and expectations, I should've been drinking myself to a stupor in some bar in Tokyo, singing terrible karaoke with the heads of Cullen Industries' latest acquisitions. But, no, the moment my schedule cleared, I'd let my dick take over and hopped on the first nonstop flight available to Atlanta.

Atlanta is clammy in May, despite the weatherman's promise of clear skies and sunshine. The thin jacket I'd worn in Japan failed to keep me warm as I stand at the curb near the exits marked "Arrival", waiting for my ride. Right on time, a Bentley glides in front of me, the latest of its kind. I get in and say hello to Felix. I ask about his life as he pulls from the airport as smoothly as he'd come, and without prompting, drives me toward downtown Atlanta.

Traffic is moderate, and I count the seconds before he drops me off in front of Bella's decrepit building.

"See you around, boss." Felix grins at me as soon as we arrive, unable to resist the dig. He has a place nearby, a charming old brownstone that has the appropriate equipment and breathing space for his wife and small children. He's lived at the house for close to a year now–running interference whenever I'm in the area and keeping an eye on Bella when I'm not.

I don't usually tolerate a joke on my expense, not unless it's from Bella, but I have to admit it's rather amusing. A year ago, I'd suggested to Bella that we move somewhere more convenient, like Kirkwood or East Lake, but she'd defended her autonomy like a crazed zealot that I hadn't dared bring it up again.

The elevator is broken, so I take the stairs to the fifth floor where Bella's apartment is tucked at the farthest side of the building. I let myself in. I am, after all, a cohabitant of the place, worthy of my own key, an exchange I consider fair for the perceived loss of my manhood. The apartment, a sad two-room affair that not even the most cutting-edge furnishings can rehabilitate, is silent. Bella's things are on the table, her boots on the side of the floor, her discarded coat slung haphazardly on one of the chairs. There's a half-eaten sandwich near the kitchen sink, so I know she's in the place somewhere. Felix had reported that she'd just come home from a bust with her detail, and that she'd earned enough praise for her work involving drug dealer. Bella, my Bella, is now a full-pledged, gun-toting, hard-ass FBI agent. The irony is vast and amusing.

I hear the shower on from the inside of the bedroom, and I congratulate myself for my luck. It seems I'm just in time for some wet skin and warm water. I start to take off my clothes so I can join her. I'm about to take off my pants when she comes out with a cloud of steam from the bathroom–wet, clean and naked under a thick, white towel wrapped around her. For a moment, she stares at me in surprised silence, before breaking into a wide smile that says it all. She doesn't squeal, that will come later, as she reaches for at me at the same moment I lunge for her. Then it's a tangle of limbs, hands, mouths and tongues in spontaneous combustion.

Her taste goes straight to my cock, like a shot to the vein, and I forget what I was thinking the second, the hour, the whole fucking week before I see her. Her hands are all over me, saying _offoffoffoffofff,_and I oblige, shedding my shirt, socks, pants, my control and sanity. She trembles against me, nerves erupting as I runmy hands all over her, grasping, squeezing, silently screaming–_nownowrightthefucknow._

She whimpers an _oh,__God_as I slip a finger between her legs, and _Jesussfuckchristalmighty__,_she's so wet, so ready, like she'd indulged in a little recreation in the shower as she tends to do when she can't get my cock inside her.

At the corner of my eye, I see the bed–the huge, doublesized bed I'd managed to coerce her into letting me buy–but the wall is closer, and she's a light, little thing,and it doesn't take a fucking minute to get her up there, with my cock inside her. She gasps when I pin her against the wall, her mouth opening into a stunned _ahhhh. _I take a precious second to breath, drawing air from her lips. She stares at me in shocked pleasure,and all I can think is _motherfuck,__she's__stunning_, with her eyes wide, her mouth open and her hair sticking to her face. She breaths in a series of gasps as balances herself on my cock and squirms, impaling herself further, and fuck, it feels good to be buried inside her.

She clings to me, digging her nails into my back, as I fuck her hard and senseless. She comes in short, frantic gasps , and I grit my teeth as I come in quick but unsatisfied relief. I squeeze her hard, grind myself against her, wishing I could crawl inside her skin and stay there. She slumps against me, spent for the moment, and I take the chance to manuever us to the bed, dropping us to the side. Sliding out, I roll her under.

She looks up at me with languid eyes as I hover over her, her whole body ready to be fucked again. I start on her rock-hard nipples–sucking, licking, tugging with my teeth as I squeeze her tits. I tell her how delicious they are, how sweet and pretty, how I love them in my mouth. I tell her she tastes good, _so__fucking__good,__baby_, that I can't wait to eat her, that, _God_, I miss her eating her sweet little pussy, that she's gorgeous, beautiful, that I want to fuck her hard. Again and again.

She whimpers and moans when I ask her if she wants me to eat her, to lick her, to fuck her, all the while pumping my fingers into her cunt. She keens, then shudders, cum gushing out of her hole, and I go down on her, licking her clean and sucking, tongueing her pretty pussy until she screams for me, for God and _stop_, _o__h,__God,__stop,__Edward,__stop,__stop _as she writhes and bucks against my mouth and fingers.

"Good?" I ask her minutes later when she manages to pry me away from her cunt, screamed-out and boneless. She rests her back against my chest as she laughs in a breathless, sexy gurgle and calls me a bastard as she endures the aftershock spasms. But _yeah_, she concedes. _I__t's__good__. _ More than good. _I__t's__amazing__._

I rub my cock against her ass as I wait for her breathing to return to normal, warming myself with the heat of her body, licking her neck, nibbling on her delicate ears, palming her breasts and playing with her nipples. When she manages to breath without gasping, I ask her if she wants to taste me, if she wants to go down on me and suck my cock. _S__uck__me,__lick__me,__baby,__please?_ She laughs in open amusement but rolls over to straddle me anyway and starts by plunging her tongue into my mouth.

She eases down my body, tasting sweat and skin, and it's pure torture not to move until she gets between my legs. Her tongue darts out–touching cock and tasting cum. She licks, sucks and twirls her tongue on the tip. I throw back my head and groan–loudly–to let her know how much I love her, and _yeah,__baby,__that__feels__good,__like__that__baby,__fuck,__just__like__that,__good,__fuck,__yeah,__so__good__. _She smiles through a mouthful of cock, taking me as far as she can, pulling back slowly and licking the head, twirling her tongue, taking me again all the way in.

"Stop," I tell her when I reach the edge of orgasm, and unlike me, she actually listens. I pull myself up, push her on her hands and knees. In one quick stroke, mount her.

It's faster, harder and brutal. She grabs onto the sheets to keep herself in one place as the bed rocks. It doesn't take long before an orgasm rips through her. She tries to buck away, but I grip her hips to keep my cock inside her. I pull her up, grab her tits and pinch her clit. She whimpers as I prolong her agony.

With her pussy pulsing around me, I come, loud and long, but I don't slow down, don't even bother to pull out, pumping steadily until my cock starts to swell again, and I'm primed and ready to fuck her to exhaustion. I push her down to the bed, ass up, and fuck, she's tight, even after thousands of rounds of fucking. I flood her cunt with my cum, reaching around to smear our combined cum across her pussy as she screams and wails against the sheets. With my cock still twitching, I flip her onto her back and lift her legs over my shoulders so I can touch her all over and fuck her as long and as hard as I can.

It's hours later when I manage to get off the bed for a smoke and remember I haven't eaten. I make a call to a private number to order pizza or a sandwich, whatever.

I watch her sleep from the sill of the bedroom window, flicking cigarette ash towards the pavement below. An hour rolls by before she stirs, her arm reaching out to the empty side of the bed.

"Hey." I move back to assure her of my presence, and as I rub her back, she makes a sound like a purr of a satistified kitty. "You hungry?"

She nods and then lifts her head to peer at me. "Are you staying long?"

Her voice is throaty and languid sexy.

"Couple of weeks."

She smiles at me in drowsy pleasure, and I smile back, resisting the sudden and overwhelming urge to hold and fuck her gently. It used to piss me off when she asks when I'm leaving so soon after I arrive, until I realized she does it so that she can rearrange her schedules to fit me.

"Where'd you go?"

"Tokyo. I called you from there, remember?"

"Just Tokyo?" I can hear amused disbelief in her voice, as she never believes me even when I tell her the truth.

"Just Tokyo, yeah. Want to hear about it?"

"Hmm-hhhmm ..."

"I had meetings." Two full weeks of them to be exact. "Dad asked me to take over."

"Take over what?"

"Cullen Industries," I say, watching surprise, then worry, flit across her face.

"Why?"

"He's not well."

"Oh." She frowns a little as she sits up, the sheet sliding off her shoulder. The thick blanket pools around her waist,but she gathers it up to her chest quickly. I stop myself from stripping it away. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine, but he needs to take it easy for a while."

"What do you mean he's fine? What happened? How sick is he? Where's he staying? Shouldn't you be with him? Maybe I should call him–"

"You can't call him. It's too early in Germany right now," I tell her, amused at her barrage of questions. The first time Bella had met my old man, she'd immediately taken a liking. "It's not serious, just a little problem with his heart. Nothing a nice vacation won't cure. We should go and visit."

"We should, yeah." She nods, agreeing readily. She's a sucker for old people, especially old,sick ones, a trait I've no qualms in taking advantage. But there isn't a point in worrying her as Anthony Cullen isn't really that sick. His blood pressure's just a little over normal, and his heart has a slight, funky murmur, but with the right diet and proper rest, he'llbe good as new in a few weeks. Or as right as he could ever be. My father's heart hasn't been well since the death of my mother.

"So you're taking over?"

"For a while, yeah." For a long while, if Anthony Cullen had his way. I'dagreed, telling him I'm doing it because he asked me to, but the fact is, I need it. Being an appendage to an FBI agent neccesitates a change of background,and CEO to a multinational conglomerate should look dauntingly respectable on my dossier. The bureau can background-check me all they want, but they'd have to get through my industrial lawyers. It shouldn't be hard taking over my father. I'd followhis companies closely, even in prison as I'd known sooner or later, the day will come when I'm going to be called in. All I had to do was maintain Cullen Industries separate from my other "enterprises."

"Just until he recuperates," I tell her, shrugging as if it's no big deal. She pierces me with a knowing stare.

"That should be interesting," she says after a while.

"It should, yeah."

"It should get the Interpol off your back," she quips and I laugh, because nothing gets past her.

"And the goddamn FBI," I tell her.

She snorts and burrows her head into the pillows. "Good luck with that."

"Except for you, of course." Still laughing, I give in to the urge of peeling the blanket off her and sliding my hands over her back in a soothing massage. "I quite like having you on my back, and my front, in fact, I insist on it.. And I like your back, too, and your ass, especially your ass."

I squeeze, and she laughs, calling me incorrigible. Undaunted, I try to roll her over, but she squirms, pushing my hands away. "I thought you said something about food ..."

"So I did."

"Where is it?"

"You have to sing for it first."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"I don't use euphemisms."

"I don't sing."

"Of course, you do."

She sings to me, with her mind, soul and her tight body. Beautifully.

**XXX**

_For wime09's birthday, which was a week? a month ago? last year? Teehee. _


	2. Chapter 2

**This is BETWEEN CHAPTERS 17 AND 18**

**Correction: A five-part pointless crap that's set BETWEEN CHAPTERS 17 AND 18 (not 18 and 19, as I previously said.) Big ooops and sorry for the confusion.**

**Warning: Not all smut.**

**Thanks to Monika (Lulu M) for kindly volunteering to beta. Welcome to Asia, M!**

** wime09 prereads because, well, she owes me. Hehehe. Thanks guys for reviewing and sticking with this story.**

**Also, I'm deleting the repost so if you reviewed chapter 1 there, I'll appreciate it greatly if you did it again here. ;) Thanks and much love people.**

**2**

It's nearly lunch when I wake up, feeling like I've just ran ten miles and then slept without moving. I'm starving, but I make my way to the bathroom first, knowing a hot shower will relieve some of the stiffness. It's temporary and mostly harmless, but by God, I ache everywhere, more so in Edward's favorite places.

I find him sitting at the kitchen table when I come out later, his back to me, the afternoon Atlantan sun on his unruly hair. In front of him is a Mac, running figures that look like garbage. He's decrypting data, and I'm dying to know the whats and hows, but I don't ask because I don't want him assuming he can just ask and get answers about my work, either.

He's had someone do some shopping. Bags of groceries sit on the counter, waiting to be put away. The coffee maker is turned on, and there's bagels and a tall glass of fresh juice beside them.

"Hey." I press a hand to the back of his neck, and he leans back into it, like a cat begging for a scratch. He's barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a frayed T-shirt, and when he looks up and smiles, there's no indication that he'd spent the night not sleeping.

I lean into him for a quick kiss, but he has other ideas, and I end on his lap, tasting the coffee and tobacco in his mouth. He turns the kiss into something else, as if he hadn't kept me awake for hours earlier. He's not tentative in his touches–he never is–murmuring a _mmmm_as his hand sneaks under my shirt, another hand pulling down my underwear. There's no curve, no crevice that Edward Cullen considers inappropriate for grabbing, even in the middle of the day, and I wonder why I bother dressing. It's easy to give in to his fingers as they drum against me, but I tell him no, before I find myself on the menu, half-lying on the kitchen table.

"Mmm-sore," I manage to say, and he chuckles, an amused rumble that starts from his chest and into his throat, and murmurs, "of course, you are."

"And I'm hungry." The whine penetrates his sex-addled brain, and his arms loosen a bit, as his hands go gentler.

"Want pancakes?"

I say _yes, __please _and smother a snicker as he goes to the kitchen like an obedient Betty Crocker.

He doesn't bother turning off his Mac, knowing I won't be able to read what's on it. He's been up for hours, judging from the clutter on the table. There's a half-full cup of coffee, some jam and a half-eaten wholewheat bagel, an apple core, papers and notes on stock market reports and a company acquisition in his neat, oldfashioned scrawl. Everything is left lying around, an open invitaion for the curious, but I know I won't find anything incriminating.

There's a copy of _The New York Times_, open to the business section, features an article announcing the sabbatical of a business tycoon who will be naming a successor. Speculation is rife on who he's picking–among them, his COO, a close associate, his own brother. Wall Street is in for a surprise, and I can imagine the collective horror when the he finally announces that he's turning the reins to his son, who's not only a classical musician, seemingly unschooled on economic matters, but one who'd spent his early adult years in prison.

The Cullens had made their fortune in transpacific shipping and steel production since the turn of the century. Over the decades, the family had diversified its interests and put up new companies, raking in hundreds of millions in annual revenues. Anthony Cullen, the current family scion, still lists the family home in Chicago as his official address and holds annual traditional balls in the sprawling estate. I've seen the reports, read the papers. Only beautiful, rich people attend the balls, which are a thousand times brighter and grander than Carlisle Cullen's birthday parties. I've seen Edward among those people, watched him mingle and charm and command attention. I'd avoided the shindigs as much as I could, knowing I'll never fit in there. It's not just that I don't have the necessary pedigree. It's because I don't have the burning ambition.

Besides, flaunting my relationship with a character with a mile-long list of offenses would've severely complicated matters.

For years, I'd deliberately kept my distance, giving the impression that whatever relationship I have with Edward Cullen isn't, and will not be, lasting. The FBI had only grudgingly accepted me into the program, as it hadn't been willing to overlook my relationship with an ex-con with a case which is deemed "continuing" even without new evidence. Despite my qualifications, my basic training had been extended from four to eight months and my first assignment is now running to almost a year. I'd endured the distrust, the silent questions, the sometimes openly hostile taunts for "shacking up with the enemy" with Charlie-like stoicity, telling myself that it's a small price to pay for wanting to have it all. Edward doesn't call me a stuborn little shit for nothing.

And it's all paid off as here I am, a member of a special detail on a highrisk drug case, about to be served pancakes for lunch by the up and coming CEO of Cullen Industries, who also happens to be one of FBI's most notorious high society gangsters. It can't get more surreal than that. Or can it?

To his credit, and my amazement, Edward have been patient. We've had skirmishes over the years, on account of him being a manipulative, arrogant psycho who refuses to let things be and what he mistakes as my pigheadedness. But we've not only endured, we've grown and have even come to terms with our very basic differences. I'd like to believe he'd mellowed somehow. I know I have.

"When you take over your dad's company, how rich are you going to be?" I ask him, and he doesn't blink, like he finds nothing wrong with the question.

"Let's see … there's the main company, its six subsidiaries, four spin-offs, stocks and properties, the corporate headquarters in New York, helicopters, a jet or two, I think, maybe thirty or so vehicles ..."

"Only thirty?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe fifty or a hundred."

"If I marry you, how much am I going to get?"

"By law, half of what I own. On the spot, a hundred mil, maybe more."

"A hundred million?"

"Minimum."

Jesus, that's scary.

"I want a prenup."

"Why?"

"I don't want your money." He looks at me, and I know what he's going to say next, so I add, "... or your companies or stocks, properties, houses or vehicles."

"Why not? It's too much for me, anyway."

"I don't want the responsibility."

"You don't have to do anything about it. It can just sit anywhere, making more money for you. That's what trust funds are for."

"I don't want to be rich, not that rich, anyway, and be blamed for the ills of society. I want to be able to march in the streets and shout 'down with you people' ..."

"With 'us' people?" He's laughing silently, his shoulders shaking.

"You know, spoiled brats and rich bastards."

He bursts out laughing as he puts a plateful of pancakes in front of me, slathered in butter and syrup. He turns back to the counter to pour coffee, stirs in sugar and some creamer. He puts the cup to my right, rotating it so I can easily grab the handle and flicks a finger up my nose.

"Spoiled, huh?"

"Shamelessly."

He snickers as he joins me at the table, bringing his own plate of pancakes and coffee.

"I'll have you know that there was never a doubt to my legitimacy," he announces. "I was conceived during my parents' three-week honeymoon on a deserted island, where they saw no one, except for the cleaning lady who came, cleaned and delivered groceries three times."

"Only three times?"

"She came in by boat, on early mornings, or so I've been told by my mother."

"They had sex for three weeks non-stop?" I'm laughing, imagining him squirming as Elizabeth Masen recounts the circumstances of his conception.

"You want a prenup," he says after a while, and then realizes that maybe, just maybe, I'm serious about it because he picks me up suddenly, and no amount of "hey, hey, I'm eating!" can dissuade him. He drops me onto the couch next to the table, and begins pawing me to the floor.

I've just told him yes, five years after he'd asked me to marry him. He hasn't asked again, not once, but it has always been there, hanging over my head, nagging for an answer. _Marry __me_, he'd said, _and __get __blanket __immunity_. And I'd seen it for what it really was–a direct challenge. _I __dare __you __to __marry __me __and __see __what __happens._ I'll never know if I didn't.

I guess getting down and dirty is his way of saying yipeee.

"When?" he asks, between gropes and kisses.

"Sometime? Later? I don't know. I haven't thought that far."

"You wanna move in with me in the meantime? Blow this shithole? Burn your car?"

"No," I say, laughing. "Jesus, you want to be charged with arson, too?"

"Your car's a disgrace."

"I know, that's why I sold it."

He stops, frowning. "When?"

And there it is, a tiny crack in the secretive armor. A week ago, I'd taken my car to the shop and had it transported to a junk dealer. I guess his people didn't catch that little turnover.

"Your watchdogs must be slipping," I tell him and he answers with a snicker. "You now, it's a federal offense to have someone under surveillance without proper authorization."

"I neither confirm or deny the charge, your honor," he says. I know there's no way I'm getting a confession.

It takes some pushing, shoving and a lot of laughed out _nononononono_'s to get him off me so we can resume eating. Later, I wash the dishes and put away the groceries as he takes a shower. When he gets out, I ask him if he's not too busy and if he'd like to go out with me.

"I want to show you something."

He says sure readily, welcoming an excuse to get out of the building.

He hates my apartment, and rightly so. I got it from mycheapapartmentsdotcom since I had no time for house-hunting when I was transferred. Predictably, Edward had offered to rent a place for me, like I'm some simpering mistress that needed a place to stay while waiting for him. The "discussion" on proper ventillation had turned into a full-blown argument with him telling me I was being fucking unreasonable and me telling him he wasn't going to pull another Tacoma on me. I'd told him that he'll just have to accept that I was going to do things my way, since it's my life, and can't he understand that I'll never, ever make it to agent if the FBI gets a hold of anything that will tangibly implicate me with whatever shit he's pulling? I don't need anything more than a place to crash and do laundy, anyway, and if he isn't going to be around most of time, there isn't really any sense for him paying for a bigger place, now is there? I remember settling the argument amicably, hours and a severe case of carpet burn later.

I call a cab and we're off, riding toward Haynes Bridge Road, turning left on Old Milton Parkway and slipping through the partial tollway. I instruct the driver to take the exit toward State Capitol and from there, toward Atlanta highway.

Edward's silent, but I catch him glancing behind us. And–there it is–a Bentley, a few cars away, surreptitious, but staying on course. I shake my head at him, scowling, and he shrugs an innocent "what?" and tells me the driver's a company guard assigned to him. Like I wouldn't recognize Felix's imposing profile, even a hundred meters away.

"Over there, to the right, mister."

The taxi slows into a stop infront of a shop with a dilapidated signboard announcing "30% discounts!" "Pre-loved but in good condition!" and urging the bystander into taking a six-month to one-year easy-pay, installment plan.

Matt, a short, balding old man who acts as general manager, greets me warmly. He leads us to a wide open space at the back, stocked with old automotive parts, like a graveyard for poor, unwanted vehicles. Matt gives me the papers, hands me a key and leaves us to get back to his other costumers.

"What do you think?" I ask him, waiting for his verdict on my new ride.

It's a 1979 Honda Mugen ME125 vintage, pre-owned, as there's no way I can afford to have one costum-built from scratch. Black, sleek and stunning, it looks like a show bike, but it's actually built for racing. It's light, but with enough space to snugly fit two riders.

Edward's looking at it like it's _his_shiny, new toy. "Wow."

He circles the bike, touching the handlebars and skimming his fingers over the body. He haunches down, peers at the engine, the new Metzler MC-5 tires, Sun rims and miscellaneous Titanium hardware.

"Wow," he says again, and it feels like I'm back in high school, and I've just impressed a boy, because I'm grinning like an idiot. Who cares if it means I have to scrimp and starve myself for the next six months as long as he likes it?

"Want to take a ride? I bought you a helmet."

"Really?" he drawls with a surprised lift of a brow, just before his face transforms into a leer. "Thats … considerate of you."

I kiss his smirk away, running my hands over his shoulders and into his hair as he presses me to the bike. It wobbles a little, since it's not wide or stable enough for fucking like his beloved Harley.

"Promise you'll behave. I haven't insured it yet."

He opens his mouth, like he wants to say no and offer to take out a premium on the spot. But he thinks better and closes it again.

"Okay."

We take the bike for a spin, racing through the streets of Atlanta at the maximum permissible speed. He keeps a lively commentary of thinly-veiled insults on my "turtle-like" driving through the communicator, but he doesn't press me where to go, just how fast I should go to get there. It's way below his standards, but I don't want a collection of speeding tickets marring my so-far pristine record, and besides, he's just a rider. We stop by a roadside cafe, linger over coffee, talking about things that are ridiculously normal.

It's dark by the time we get back to the apartment.

"Still sore?" he asks when he joins me under the shower to wash away grime, and I tell him no, not really, not anymore. But we take our time, running slippery, soapy hands over each other, cleaning and squeezing between gasps and murmurs and lingering kisses.

We crawl under the covers naked in a haze of lust and pleasure. There's no frenzy, no rush as he turns me to one side and presses himself to my back, head to head, hip to hip, legs and arms tangling. He places a knee over my hips, and slowly, deliberately, inches his cock into me in langorous torture. Once fully sheathed in, he rocks his hips at a maddening pace, whispering sweet nothings that turn cruder and cruder. It takes him some time to work himself up, and no amount of straining and begging from me persuades him to go faster. He starts in a slow shudder and comes in a sudden, almost violent intensity. I hold on to the edge of the bed as he loses it, shaking and thrashing in uncontrollable spasms, moaning _oh,__God,__fuck,__Jesus,__fuck,__fuck,__fuck_.

After, we lay still for long minutes without moving, as he fights for breath and control over his body. It scared me the first time something similar had happened, when he'd looked like he was having an attack of some sort that's possibly damaging. He'd returned to normal after a while but had looked at me with something close to unhinged awe that I'd thought, my God, he's gone so far out, and I don't want this to ever happen again. Then he'd called me by my name.

Bella.

He'd said Bella–not baby or sweetheart or darling but Bella– Bella, I love you.

Simple.

"You ok?" I ask him after a while, when his breathing slows down and his body stops shuddering. He doesn't answer, and I'm starting to think he's fallen asleep when I feel a ghost of a kiss on my neck. He smiles against my skin, as he settles in for the night and whispers.

"Never been better."

**XXX**

**There it is. A lot of people had wondered under what circumstances they ended up getting married. Stick around because this is that story.**

**Thanks again, old and new friends, for reading. Chapter 3 won't take long. **

**If you're in the move of reading more fanfic, go read Dusty by YellowBella :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**For all of you who have read, reviewed and waited (maybe) for this. Thank you so much for your patience.**

_**Drift 3**_

"Something's happening."

I'm in New York, in a room full of men with greying hair, when the call comes in. It's Felix and "something's happening" is not a code for anything other than what it is. I make my excuses to the board of Cullen Industries and leave to take the call.

"They're in trouble...glitches in the operation." The edge on Felix's voice is alarming but I stop myself into jumping to conclusions. Raids, as I know in my experience, rarely go as expected. "They're changing frequencies," he pauses, and I can hear him typing furiously in the background. "Explosion at 1500 hours. Fire on alarm three, firetrucks on scene."

A knot forms in my stomach when I realize he's quoting straight from a transmission.

"Status report?"

"None yet."

"Forward everything to my unit."

I hang up, knowing it'll take him a while to sort through the confusion. Felix is tapped deep into the FBI grid but he's no Jasper. Electronic surveillance doesn't come to him as naturally as breathing.

I go back to the men my father trusts most and tell them that I'm done for the day but they can carry on if they like. They stare at me in equal parts of fear and fascination and I realize, despite being on the job for a month, I still unnerve them. I wonder how much more are they going to fear me if I suddenly tell them that I had access to all the companies' records, even their personal files, when I was still in prison? They're old men, friends of my father, so I decide there's no point in them knowing. I bid them a good day instead, and walk out.

On my way to my office, I call up one of my PAs to cancel all my appointments.

"Even the one on the weekend, Mr. Cullen?"

"Yes, even the benefit performance." I'd kept my performance schedule as the opportunity gives me the cover to be anywhere I want. "Call Seattle and have one of the Cessna there ready for take off."

"To which destination should I tell them to go, sir?"

"Port Angeles."

In case Charlie Swan needs something to fly him out of Washington.

I dial Jasper's number.

He picks up his mobile on the seventh ring, in a way that he always does, launching on a detailed description on the new program he's developing. I cut him off before he goes into an overdrive.

"That sounds very interesting but right now, I need you to pull in all visuals, spot reports, cell and radio communications to and from an ongoing FBI raid on a warehouse in South California, address 53301 US Highway 111. Operation under the heading Project Pre-reckoning 2, case file N-0093488."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now. Get me everything."

He doesn't ask why.

I put him on speakerphone in my office and wait, the clicks he's making in the background strangely comforting. In my mind, I can see him hunched in front of his unit, knees up. His fingers fly over the keyboard as he types in his codes and algorithms in search for data. He's isolating signals, refining his searches, breaking down encryption and trumping security walls.

I'd hoped I wouldn't have to call him. I'd hoped I cruised through the days in a bored haze, humoring old men in suits, waiting for Bella to come back from her assignment, tired and giddy, happy to be home after weeks of pressures and near-death situations. I'd say she did well but won't ask for details. She's not going to tell me and besides, I already know.

They're against a slippery motherfucker. Marco Antonio Guzman, nicknamed El Brad Pitt, is an ex-cop who heads the Juarez Cartel's military wing, known for orchestrating multiple murders and capable of thwarting the most complicated FBI stings. After months of trailing him, Bella's unit had hit the jackpot when they discovered that he's due in Palm Springs to oversee a shipment.

I had Felix keep an eye on her. A team with rookie agents on a difficult case always carries an unavoidable risk. Somebody's bound to fuck up, make the wrong decision.

There's Rosalie Hale, Bella's roommate from Evergreen. Emmett McCarthy, also from Evergreen and Hale's fuckbuddy. Laurent Desantis, a hotshot detective from New Orléans who gave Bella hell when she first came in. Sam Uley, a Narc veteran, heads the detail. Paul Lahote, another veteran, stands as his second-in-command. Three more, with considerable experience, make up the rest of team. A solid combination but at their line of work, there are no guarantees.

It takes Jasper a while to get through but when he does, it's golden. "I'm sending you a transmission from one of the FBI channels. Gimme a few more minutes to clean up the visuals."

I work on decrypting the message as soon as it comes in. As the letters and numbers begin to form a more coherent pattern, a dull throb begins to form in the back of my head.

_Gunshots fired, explosion on 1530 hours. Warehouse collapse. Signal 1. Major emergency. Signal 3: request for more staff Signal 9: firetrucks dispatched to the area. Signal 16: call for ambulance._

The throb begins to push from the back of my head towards the center as I search for descriptions and names. It takes less than a minute before I see it. _Agent Down. Agent Swan. Signal 18. on the way to __hospital._ I hit the key to cancel the transmission, knowing Jasper will decode the rest for me.

I take a deep breath and weigh my options.

I can–and should–stay out of it for very obvious reasons. Isabella Marie Swan is a FBI agent who's good at her job and trained to deal with extreme situations. She's part of highly trained unit, with access to all the necessary resources, including medical attention.

Interfering with an ongoing FBI investigation is overreaching. There's nothing to be gained from it except maybe getting booted out of a lousy apartment by an irate Bella who guards her job like a rabid zealot. Add to that, it will jeopardise my standing in the underworld community, already precarious since it became known that I'm sleeping with a member of the much-disdained anti-cartel FBI unit. I have no interest or compulsion whatsoever in becoming the FBI's white knight, except, this isn't about the FBI at all. It's about Bella and how the mere thought of her wounded and bleeding is enough to make me nauseous.

Picking up a secure line, I dial a number, something I should have done months before. The phone rings, and rings, and I'm about to fling it against the wall when someone picks it up and answers.

"Irina, it's me."

"Darling!" She purrs in Russian, masking her surprise well. It occurs to me that she may not be alone, as Irina rarely is, but I find it hard to care. "How very nice to hear from you at four o'clock in the morning."

She makes her excuses to someone in the background. She's just going to take this call, she's saying, an old friend, she won't be long. A door opens, closes.

"Clear," she says, switching to English. I hear the rasp of a lighter. She takes a deep breath, exhales. "What can I do for you, Edward?"

"I want you to initiate contact with Deangelo Marcus."

"Marcus?" There's only a few things that surprises Irina, and this is one of them. I suddenly realize the insanity of calling her without preparation. "Of the 'Ndarangheta?"

"As soon as possible," I tell her. "Use intermediaries or Volturi proxies. We're not making ourselves known."

She doesn't answer right away so I light a cigarettte and wait.

"If you can't handle him–"

"I can handle him," she interrupts. "It's just that we've never dealt with them before. The Volturi, yes. Even the Cossa Nostra at some point but we've never done anything that has to do with drugs or prostitution."

"We're not doing business with him."

"Oh," she exhales, probably relieved. "What's this all about?"

"Remember Operation Solare?"

"The drug raids?"

Operation Solare was an interstate, international anti-narcotic operation involving drug cartels from the US, Mexico and Italy. It managed to break up alliance between the Los Zetos Cartel of Mexico and the 'Ndarangheta mafia which controls most of the cocaine distribution in the Mediterranean area and Western Europe. It ran the Los Zetos cartel to the ground but it failed to crush the 'Ndarangheta.

"They're here," I tell her. "In California. The "Ndarangheta came into an agreement with the Mexican Juarez Cartel last year. The FBI have tried to infiltrate them this past two years but they're running into usual fuck-ups. I'm willing to bet they have someone inside the anti-cartel task force."

"Ah," she says, "the FBI. I take it your _gobushka_ is involved."

"She's just been hit."

Irina takes a sharp breath. "How is she?"

"I don't know yet."

"And you?"

"I don't know."

She's silent, probably doubting my sanity at the moment.

"You want to take Marcus out?"

"Not him, his partners. But we can burn him if that's what you want." We were just a bunch of spoiled, rich kids when we started, but even then, we were smart enough to steer clear from the hardcore cartels, refusing to do business with them. Most of them are too greedy, too undisciplined. Marcus Deangelo especially so. The Dverenko sisters hate his guts with a vengeance. "Im sure he won't be missed."

"You're taking quite a risk."

"I know what I'm doing, Irina. Trust me."

"I do, Edward, always."

"Then get me Marcus. Set him up with the Volturi, offer him a cut in our European operations. Use him to lure the Juarez Cartel out, I want them here, on my turf, where I can watch them. I want a total lockdown on this, Irina, don't give them a whiff of who you are or who you're working for. "

"Consider it done."

We set up a meeting in Moscow the following month and make other necessary arrangements. I apologize for interrupting her night and she teases me for a bit, an attempt in distraction, but I'm too wound up, too worried...too goddamn furious. The Juarez Cartel won't even know what hit them after I'm done with them.

My secretary buzz me just when I'm ending the call and tell me that my car is ready to take me to the airport.

The ride to the hangar is not long, and I spend the minutes staring out the window, trying not to think of the things that can still go wrong.

A Cessna waits for me in a private airport, as another is making its way to Port Angeles. I call Carlisle, ask him to check on Chief Swan and tell him to offer the jet if he needs one. I trust that he'll keep my name out of the conversation.

Jasper calls again after the plane takes off.

"Multiple GSW patient, male, GSW left anterior thigh, second degree burns," he reads from a report in monotone. "Multiple GSW patient; female, shot in the abdomen x 2, medevac to Eisenhower Medical Center, attending emergency physician Dr. William Lee … "

Jasper's voice drones on but I can barely hear him as the dull throb in the back of my head goes from barely tolerable to pain. Bile rises to my throat, pushing nausea out and I stand and stumble blindly towards the lavatory to heave my stomach's contents into the stainless bowl.

"Are you all right, sir?" An attendant stands looking at me a few feet away, a bottle of water in her hand. Her sympathy grates against the painful haze in my head.

"Get out."

The girl scampers away before I could apologize. I drag myself up to wash my mouth, my hands, look at myself on the small, lavatory mirror. I look the same, except for the bloodshot eyes and the rumpled clothes. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to think, measure, calculate.

I go back to my seat and read the rest of the transmission.

Multiple gunshot wounds, shot in the abdomen, x2, massive bleeding...

I check on Bella's records again, hoping but not expecting that she'd changed something crucial. Under next-of-kin, she listed Charlie Swan, father, Forks Police Department. There's no one else on the list, no longtime companion, no recently promoted fiancée. With the lockdown almost a certainty, I won't be allowed anywhere near her.

Anthony calls in after a while. One of his associates probably reported to him my strange behaviour. As soon as I fill him in, he decides he's flying in, his doctors be damned. I tell him, no, he doesn't have to. He insists and I cave in, remembering another place, when I was 15. The night my mother died, we sat a seat apart from each other, counting the minutes in our heads, willing her to live. She didn't, and he survived it. I tell him, ok, I could use some company.

The staff treats me with careful politeness after my outburst, unused to my rudeness. They served my father before me, and I know that Anthony is unfailingly polite to everyone, regardless of their station. I turn to apologize to the girl that I shouted at earlier.

"I'd like to have that water now, please."

She gives a wary smile and hands me a bottle.

"Thank you."

Jasper manages to tap me into the Eisenhower's closed circuit TV in record time and I run a scan of the corridors to find which operating room they'd taken Bella. I spot Rosalie Hale, looking like a fire truck just ran over her. She's in an argument with a male nurse, probably insisting in that loud, bitchy way of hers that she be allowed to wait in the hall despite her own injuries. Too bad, the nurse wins and she gets sent away. Minutes later, Sam Uley replaces her in front of the locked double doors marked "surgery."

The hours creep by as I keep watch on the same doors, a thousand feet up in the air. My eyes blur as doctors, nurses and staff pass through the monitors. Uley doesn't leave, even when some of the staff gestures for him to sit at some chairs at the end of the corridor. Right then, I decide to give him the Juarez Cartel, as soon as I can arrange it.

I count the seconds as they go by, keeping my mind a careful blank.

Two hours later, the doors swing and a doctor comes out.

"She's through," I hear Jasper's through the headset. "One of the doctors just called the switchboard for a transfer to the recovery room and not the SICU. That's good news, right?"

"I don't know."

The full medical report won't be in until her transcripts are encoded but there are other ways of knowing. When were children, Remus taught us the finer points of sign language and lip-reading.

"Zoom in on camera twenty-two," I tell Jasper. A doctor is talking to Uley in a corner. "Process the images and automate speech recognition."

"Abdominal trauma, tissue damage, profuse bleeding in operate …," the doctor's lips forming the words, and I listen in silence, "... without damaging the spinal nerves, enough blood despite shock. Clean exit wounds, removed splinters without causing damage. Inflammation expected, transfusion to bring blood levels to normal."

Onscreen, the doctor is describing what happened. A bullet went through Bella's stomach, in the retroperitoneal space, and while it didn't damage internal organs, it caused profuse bleeding. The second bullet grazed the skin and surface tissues near her spleen but didn't damage her spine or the nerves near it.

"She's going to be fine," he assures Uley. "A couple of weeks and she'll be good as new." The doctor is smiling, unaware how much he'd impacted my world in just a few seconds. "Has her family been notified?"

"Her father's coming."

I look down, realizing I'd crushed the water bottle, and will my hands to stop shaking.

**Next chapter, coming up.**


	4. Chapter 4

_So...after more than a year, I'm updating. I've pulled the other chapter 4 because it was crappier than usual (delete-delete) and replaced it with this one. Sorry to have taken so long. No excuses, I just wasn't able to write anything worth reading for a while. I hope you don't mind (much) the wait. This is the last one of the series. I know I said five chapters and maybe later, I'll do an epi or an outtake. It's been a wild ride and I'm going to miss these two. I hope you will, too. Enjoy!_

It's done.

News stations are calling it the drug bust of the decade. Ten months after Bella was shot, they'd finally nailed the Juarez Cartel. Her team did most of the hard work, aided by a somewhat curious set of coincidences that eventually led to the capture of the most dangerous drug lord in the northern hemisphere. Little details that didn't seem to add up at first– a deal gone bad in South Mexico, a small-town distributor pulling out in California, a trail of sloppy paperwork that broke another deal in Italy. Then a few weeks ago, Marco Guzman, Juarez's most trusted lieutenant, was found dead in Russia, purportedly on the hands of the Russian mafia whom he double-crossed. He was shot, gangland style, in a hotel room in Leningrad. A laptop was found in his room, and curiouser and curiouser, it contained a wealth of data found only in the Fed's wildest fantasies–paper trails to hidden bank accounts, sketchy files on dummy corporations, an obscure ledger for future transactions. Bella's team worked overtime to set up the final trap, a non-existent deal in Seattle. In one final swoop, everything fell to their places, ten months to the day the motherfucker's goons almost killed her.

"Excellent work, Irina. I'll see you in Rome next month."

I sit back on my chair after I cut the secure connection. I'm back in my father's office in New York. There's no question that it's mine now. For a few weeks after the shooting, Anthony was forced to assume chairmanship as I refused to leave Bella's side until she was able to go back to work. He'd made it plain to the board that I was in charge, and that there was nothing they can do to pull him out of retirement.

I call him up and talk for a while. I have a few minutes to spare before I go into meetings for the rest of the day.

Anthony ends the call with his usual "give my love to Bella," pushing her again to the forefront of my mind. She'd called the day before, telling me she's flying in today from Seattle but I'm not to pick her up at the airport because she's dropping by her office, and that she'll wait for at home...and that she has a question for me...and that we needed to talk. Sounds ominous, except I know exactly what she wants to talk about.

She'd be back at our place by now. My choice of home this time. After the shooting, she'd been in no position to insist on old arrangements and I wasted no time in making them for her. Her team was recalled to their New York office then, a fortunate coincidence for me, although I would've gladly based myself wherever she was. I bought us a reasonably spacious single-family home on 87th St., with a small garden and several bedrooms. It came fully staff but I had everyone live off-site. I bought her a car, as her bike is a little impractical for the city. Nothing flashy, of course, as she'd insisted on a moderately-priced model to fit into her narrow parking space at the bureau.

She'd be sleeping by now, cramming in hours of rest before I come home. Naked under our sheets, hogging my side of the bed. It's too bad I didn't wire my own bedroom so I can watch her sleep. It's worse that I can't cancel my appointments to rush home and join her. She needs her rest. She's not going to get much later.

She's still sleeping when I get home. Flinging back the bed covers, I find her lying on her stomach, with a leg stretched to one side, giving me a great view of her ass and her neatly trimmed bush. I sit down beside her and dip a finger between her legs. Fuck, she's wet, wet enough for my cock to slide into her without her waking. I feel saliva pool in my mouth, my cock swelling painfully inside my pants.

I pull her ass towards the edge of the bed and flip her to her back. I open her legs, position myself and take a long, leisurely lick of her pussy. She stirs, I lick again. She starts to wake with a moan..

"Edward?" She blinks at me sleepily.

"Shhh.."

"Edward, wait, ahhhhh..."

She jerks, her ass lifting off the bed as she flings back her arms to grab at the sheets as I give her clit a long, hard suck.

She's practically still asleep, and disoriented, when I push two fingers inside her. She cries out an ahhhh, her legs falling to the sides. I hold her hips down, as my refasten my mouth on her clit, sucking, licking, laving her pussy with saliva as I stab her cunt with my fingers. Fast, then faster, until her pretty pussy's dripping and swollen into pretty pink.

Her back arches as her pussy contracts, thrusting her breasts up. I grab one and squeeze as she grabs at my hair and pull hard. I put my mouth where my fingers had been and grab both her tits, holding her down in the process. I suck, stab her hole with my tongue, my hands squeezing her tits hard, licking her furiously as she writhes and moans under me. She's barely awake when she starts to come, screaming little screams, her legs falling and lifting as she strains against my hold. She bucks and squirms, but I carry on sucking and licking through her ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhhh, not stopping until she comes again.

I smile as her legs slackens against my head, and start kissing my way from her pussy to the inside of her thighs, to her knee, her ankle. She squeals in protest and pulls away as I try to suck on her dainty little toes. Sometimes it turns her on like a firecracker, sometimes she finds it disgusting. Other times, she can't make up her mind. I grab her other ankle and pull her ass back to the edge of the bed..

She looks up at me from our messed-up sheets, trying to catch her breath, more awake now than asleep. Then she smiles a sleepy smile, and it takes everything in me not to plow back into her hard, over and over, until she's gasping and breathless and can't decide if she wants me to stop or carry on.

She looks me over, laughs softly. "Board meeting?"

I realize I still have my suit on–a tailored Savile–tie, jacket, shoes and all.

I prop both her legs against my chest, her ass against my hard but still-clothed dick, as I make a show of taking off my jacket and tie. She's wriggling a foot against me, her toes playing with my shirt buttons. I take hold of her wriggling foot and kiss her ankle, as her toes seem to be a no-go at this point, going down to lick her knees, trailing my tongue to the junction of her thighs to drop a light kiss and a quick lick on her pussy.

She sighs and pulls me down so I can kiss her properly. A full body kiss–tongue on tongue, open mouth on mouth. She wraps her legs around me, her arms holding the back of my neck. I put mine loosely around hers.

She sucks in a breath as I grab a breast and squeeze, pressing her against me. I slide my hand to grasp her nipple, pebbling, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger as I play with her tongue inside my mouth. She whimpers, then captures my tongue with hers and sucks on it. She rolls her tongue around mine, sucking and licking, just as she would if she was giving me head. Fuck. I whimper. Fuck.

She hears me, and rolls me to my back.

"Your suit's ruined," she says as she straddles me. I pull her down. Fuck my suit, I want a kiss. I want kisses. I want deep and wet kisses with tongue that I can feel down to my balls. I want her mouth on mine as she rips through my shirt buttons and I work on my belt and zip so that I can yank my cock out and she can sit on it and hump me with her pink pussy lips.

"Like that, like that." I squeeze her ass, guiding her movements as she rubs my penis between her legs. I want slow, then fast, yeah. "Like that, baby."

I press her down on me, my hands on her ass, as I grind my crotch against her. Fuck, yeah. She moans in agreement.

"Suck me," I say. "Suck me, please."

She looks down to where my cock is jutting out between her thighs, red and leaking with precum. She scoots back and promptly takes me into her mouth. I smooth her hair to the back of her neck, holding it away from her face so I can watch her. She takes me in, inch by inch, her fingers wrapped around the base. She goes as far as she can, almost halfway, before the tip touches the back of her throat. She starts to suck, drumming her fingers against the lower half of my shaft. I watch her tits sway and her ass wriggle as she bobs her head up and down my cock. She pops me out, and licks me from the base to the tip, before popping me in again while squeezing my balls. I jerk in her hands, sliding myself deeper into her throat.

Fuck, yeah.

She rears up suddenly, and I whimper.

She laughs as she yanks away the bottom half of my thousand dollar suit and throws it behind her. I'd kicked off my shoes at some point.

"Up," she says, and scoots away and falls kneeling beside the bed.

I stand and loom over her as she sits on her heels between my legs, licking the tip of my cock.

"You sure?" I ask her as she starts to take me into her mouth again. I'd told her before that she doesn't need to suck my cock all the way as she already blows my mind. But she wants to, and I've long decided that whatever Bella wants, she gets.

She laughs again because, yeah, like I'm not about to come in my socks just thinking about it.

I slide my cock halfway into her mouth without friction. I feel her relax and I slip in a little more, waiting, bracing for that slight pressure from her hands against my thighs that would signal that she's had enough. She doesn't make a move so I shift and slip in some more, groaning, until I'm buried completely in her mouth. Slowly, as slowly as I'd pushed in, I pull out, and feel her lips, her teeth, scrape against every ridge and crook of my cock.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck."

I feel her smile, and hum in appreciation, as she halts my progress with her hands and sucks me in again. All the way. Half way. All the way again, and again. My hands tangle on her hair as I try to control myself not to thrust into her mouth roughly. I hiss, groan my encouragement. Fuck, yeah, fuck, fuck, baby, more, more, more, that's it, yeah, like that, just like that. She smiles and laughs at me as she sucks, licks, pops me in and out, cups and squeezes until I'm on the verge of collapsing. Or pulling her up and screwing her into the mattress instead.

I cum. Of course I do. Spectacularly. I cannot _not_ cum in the hands and mouth of the best cocksucker in the world. I fall on the bed before she can finish me off, my hands on my cock as I spew a bucketful of load on myself and on the sheets.

She crawls beside me on the bed and kisses me, giving me tongue, as I jack myself off to semi-erection.

She laughs at the mess I made after I'm done. Then she bends and starts licking cum on my semi-erect cock. She raises an eyebrow at me in challenge as she cleans my dick with her mouth.

I pull her up and flip her to her side, hoist her leg against my hip and ram myself into her from behind. My cock stiffens as her pussy contracts in surprise.

I turn her head towards me to kiss her, keeping her leg hoisted up with an arm. I pound into her at once, hard and fast, feeding the orgasm already building in my gut.

"C'mon," I urge her, as my cock swells bigger inside her, stretching her pussy walls. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon." I shift position, thrusting deeply and hitting something right as she opens her mouth in a silent scream.

"Like that, huh?" I growl against her mouth as she starts to writhe and cry out, ah, ah, ah, ah, ahhhh, as I hit her spot again.

"C'mon." I hoist her leg higher and put my hand on her pussy to help her along. "C'mon, baby, c'mon." I thrust into her faster and faster, fingering her clit with one hand, squeezing her tits with another.

She screams as she breaks and I roll her on her back and pull myself to my knees, holding her legs against my chest and bending down, thrusting deeply, deep into her pussy. My hands are on her shoulders, holding her down as I pound into her in furious and fast strokes, hitting her G-spot again and again. She strains against my hold, writhe against the pillows as she opens her mouth to scream and beg...please, oh, please, oh, God, ahhhh, ahhh, ahhhh. Her pussy clench and unclench around my cock as she thrashes under me. I feel my balls start to explode, and then it's coming, yeah, ah... ah...ah...ah...yeah, baby, I'm cumming, I'm cumming. Fuck.

Fuck.

I drop to her side, taking her with me, my cock still throbbing inside her. We're both breathing hard, almost gasping, but I tilt her head to kiss her anyway. .

"Okay?"

"Water," she rasps and I laugh, because I love it when I can make her scream in pleasure. I give her a kiss and a lazy thrust before sliding out. Water, dinner, then the talk about the mysterious death of a certain gangster. No point in keeping it from her. She'd probably worked out most of the details, anyway.

She's sprawled on the bed when I get back, breathing evenly. Her hair is a spread out all over the pillows in a nice tangled mess, her body slick with a thin sheen of sweat that makes me want to lick her all over.

"Hey."

She rouses herself and I prop her against me so she can take the glass of water I got her. Her hand brushes my crotch unintentionally and my dick stands in attention. She eyes my cock as she drinks up.

Maybe dinner can wait.

"I made dinner," she says.

Maybe not.

I reluctantly put on boxers, she puts on my ruined shirt.

"So," she says when we finish eating, having drifted from one innocuous topic to another over dinner, "start talking."

I don't feign ignorance. "What do you want to know?"

She goes to the living room and comes back with her Ipad.

She swipes the screen to show me a photo of crime scene of the hotel where Guzman was killed, with Russian police casing evidence. Then a series of photos of what I assume is from the party the night before.

I begin by identifying the players.

"And this?" She points to man in a suit. He's Mediterranean, and on his arm is Irina Deveyrenko.

"Deangelo Marcus, head of the "Ndrangheta. He lured your cartel to Europe. He used to date Irina." I don't tell her the bastard's days are numbered, or that Irina's doing the counting.

"Looks like they're friends again."

I don't answer. There are still some things she doesn't need to know. She props her hip on the table and crosses her arms across her chest in a classic interrogator pose. I look her over, covertly leering. The shirt she has on is torn with the front gaping, giving me a nice view of the top of her breasts. Deliciously disheveled, wet between the legs and wearing no panties– my fantasy bad cop.

"Did Marcus have Guzman killed?"

"No."

"Did you have Guzman killed?"

"No," I say. "I had him trapped. He's been skimming off cartel profits for years. I forwarded his boss a few details of his indiscretion, and they took care of him."

"So you handed him over to Juarez."

"I merely provided him proof."

"Then you delivered Juarez to us on a silver platter with the laptop Guzman conveniently left lying around the place."

"Again, I merely provided proof. Your team worked out the rest."

She gives me a pointed look. "Do you realize if word gets out that you had a hand at this, you're going to be in every hit list of every drug cartel in South America?"

"And in Western Europe, maybe even Russia, yeah."

I don't mean to sound flippant, but by the look she's giving me, I probably do.

"One day,' she says quietly, "you are going to overplay your hand and you're going to get yourself re-arrested for interfering with a Federal investigation or worse, killed."

I give her a smile. "Let's hope that doesn't happen."

She shakes her head. "I should tell Uley."

"But you're not going to," I say with absolute conviction.

"Maybe we can work something out to prevent anything from leaking."

It's my turn to shake my head. For months I'd planned and plotted–dangled baits, set traps and closed them. I'd channeled millions into non-existent deals and put up shadow organizations to create an intricate playing field, pushing each player to the corner where I wanted them to fall. And fall they did, but not before knowing the hand that pushed them.

"I don't need protecting," I tell her. "And you don't need to tell Uley anything. We've had this conversation before, remember?" I ask her softly. "There is a way out of these sticky situations."

She stares at me in silence and I decide that its time we put everything on the table again. I get up to get two set of papers I'd been carrying with me for days.

I spread them in front of her and put a pen beside them.

"Sign."

One is a prenuptial agreement, the other a special license. She picks up the first, skimming through the pages, and ignores the latter. She sighs, then begins reading the document in earnest.

"You left the percentage on property distribution blank," she says after a few minutes.

"Put whatever percentage you're comfortable with."

She doesn't' say anything, just picks up the pen and keeps on reading.

"Fifty percent of all my assets? What assets?"

I give her a smirk. "I actually wanted a hundred percent but the lawyers said that's not allowed."

"This thing is ridiculous," she says, throwing down the prenuptial.

"You insisted on it," I tell her. "I didn't want one in the first place. Sign them, Bella." I push the papers back at her. "Get it over with."

_Put me out of my misery. _

She sits back and looks at me intently. I can see her try to work out my motives in her mind.

"Is there something you want," she asks, putting down the pen slowly, "specifically?"

I've waited almost a year for her to ask me. I've had enough time to think about my answer.

"I want you to take my name," I start quietly, calmly. "I want you to get your papers in line. I want all my rights and entitlements as your next-of-kin in emergency cases and your husband in all others. I want communication and testimonial privileges against all threats and possible cases that can potentially jeopardize you or your standing in the bureau."

"I want you to stay here, with me, in New York, as much as possible. If your job takes you somewhere else, I want us to stay in a house of my choosing, unless you're in training or undercover."

"But no long undercover assignments," I add. "I don't think I can handle the separation."

"I want a fraction of your time every year, or every six months, depending on your schedule. I will not object to you putting in long hours, but I'm taking you on your days off, holidays, weekends and all your vacations."

I keep my tone even, reasonable. "I want no complaints when I set up our joint accounts, joint ownership of all our assets and future trusts. I've started withdrawing all investments in my name, and that of my companies, from all FBI-related contracts to avoid future conflicts. You don't need to know, or be involved in anyway, with the companies, unless you want to. If I die, I want you to have everything and by everything, I mean every single thing."

She shakes her head, but doesn't argue.

"And what do you get?"

"I get you," I tell her and fight the urge to fidget. I feel unusually nervous, but then I have never been this serious in my life.

She stares at me for a long time, before picking up the pen and bending down to sign. I hold my breath, listening to the pen scratch paper as she signs the rest of her life to me.

She stands up after she's done with the last page and goes to the fridge, takes out something from the freezer.

"We should do this right," she says and puts a small, black box in front of me. Velvet. I look up at her in surprise.

She shrugs. "You really didn't think I wouldn't notice your name popping up in the clerk registry for a marriage application, did you? Especially if that application was processed with both parties absent and issued within an hour. Harmless, yes, but still highly irregular. It's like beating a red light. You think you can get away with it, and sometimes you can, but not always."

I've always known she kept tabs on me. I didn't know just how closely.

I swallow to clear my throat. "I was hoping you'd pay a little attention."

"And ruin the surprise?" she asks with a soft snicker.

I open the box. There's a titanium ring inside it. Black. Plain. So light, it's practically weightless. I turn it over with my fingers. There's a date is inscribed inside, and nothing else. I suck in a breath when I recognize it. It's the day we met on the train.

I put the ring on my palm and study it with reverence, remembering every second of that day.

"What do you think we should tell our grandchildren?"

Nobody but us knows about the encounter. Everybody thinks I took one look at her in Forks and decided to corrupt her.

She gives me a smile. "Let's just tell them we met on a train..."

"...fell in love and ran away." I finish for her. "At least for a day." Love at first sight, drowned in an uncontrollable urge to rut so powerful that I almost didn't recognize it.

"Works for me," she says with a laugh.

I put the ring on. It's cold against my skin. She did hide it in the freezer, of all places. I flex my hand and stare at the ring glinting on my finger. It fits, perfectly.

"It's the truth," I say.

I look at her, the girl of my dreams and fantasies, my future wife. She's sitting back on her chair, arms across her chest, head slightly tilted to one side. She looks calm, content...happy. She's waiting for me to say something but for once, I'm tongue-tied. Overwhelmed. So I just sit, and stare at her across our kitchen table, a piece of furniture that has seen regular action other than eating.

"We should celebrate," she says suddenly, standing up to open the fridge and pulling out a bottle of champagne. "I bought this at the airport."

Dinner, ring, champagne. I've never felt so thoroughly outmaneuvered.

"I've a better idea."

She squeals as I pick her up, grabbing the champagne from her. She wraps her arms and legs around me as I kiss her and we stumble around, groping for the nearest available surface. Her ass ends up on the kitchen bar. It's a place as good as any for starters.

It's going to be a long, long night for her. Good thing she's already rested.

THE END

_I love you all._

_PS: I didn't realize that by pulling an old chapter and replacing it with a new one meant everyone who reviewed wouldn't be able to post another. So, I've allowed guest reviews. You can leave me a note as a guest reviewer, just leave your name (or your twitter handler) so I can thank you properly. Thanks, thanks, and thanks all. _


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